


Pas de Trois

by WatanabeMaya



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Drama, F/M, Literature, Multi, fan fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-26 11:32:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1686803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WatanabeMaya/pseuds/WatanabeMaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a dance that they do, him and her, an endless waltz of secrets and lies and promises that they both know will always be broken in the end. Because Roderich has never loved Elizabeta. And Liz has never forgotten Gil. / PruHunAus. Twoshot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Valse Nocturne

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, did Maya just write a story about an unhappy couple and a hollow relationship? How timely. :|Here's a little something I wrote a few weeks ago, sorry for such a late update but my personal life has been quite a wreck and I remember that my friend Whaddapack wanted to beta this before so I promised him that I'd let him but then he's really busy now so I just went on ahead with posting this in its un-beta'd form. Hope you like it I guess...
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, but I do own this plot.

It's a dance that they do, him and her, an endless waltz of secrets and lies and promises that they both know will always be broken in the end.

-x-

It had always been a marriage of convenience.

There was a wedding, Elizabeta remembers, a humble ceremony in which they exchanged vows and rings and locked lips. Roderich whispered sweet nothings in her ear as they danced across the floor; leading her to a waltz as she stumbled in her step, his voice a gentle lilt that guided her throughout the way. They greeted the guests and thanked them for their presence, flashing smiles and locking arms until the clock struck twelve and he dropped his gaze, letting go of her hand as prying eyes filed out of the room.

Eight years have passed since then.

The bed is still as cold as the first time they'd slept together.

-x-

Elizabeta wakes up at a quarter to four in the afternoon, to an empty bed and frigid sheets. Her shift at the bar starts in less than half an hour, and it's probably best for her to grab a quick bite to eat before she heads off to work. She skimps on the shower, though, donning her uniform and running a comb through her hair. She can't afford to be late.

She descends the stairway and overhears the sound of the piano, but doesn't bother to shoot a glance at the baby grand that stood proudly at the corner of the room. She heads straight to the kitchen, helping herself to a slice of toast from the leftovers laid out from this morning's breakfast. The bread is stale, but it would have to do.

"Are you leaving for work, Elizabeta?" a voice comes up from behind her, and the Hungarian girl can't help but flinch from surprise.

"It's almost time for my shift," she explains nonchalantly, strapping a bag over her shoulders as she heads for the door.

"Don't forget your coat," he tells her, more out of habit than concern. "It gets chilly during the night." His voice is monotonous, standoffish, and almost near robotic.

Elizabeta stares at him with a nuance of confusion, wondering what it would've been like if she hadn't married Roderich, a man who simply tolerated her, leading her on with half-hearted emotions not at all resembling love.

_Would things have been different then?_

But life isn't a fairytale, Elizabeta reminds herself. Her prince will never be perfect, he will never love her the way she loves him, like how they do in books and in the movies. He will never be her dashing knight in shining armour, nor a valiant prince to ward off her fears. Maybe perhaps, she had never even needed him to be her prince at all.

The latter prospect doesn't even bother her in the slightest.

For Elizabeta has learned much throughout her life, enduring many years of living alone and working for money just to make ends meet; enough hardships to teach her that not all women are damsels in distress that are in need of saving.

-x-

Gilbert steps into the bar, crimson eyes eager and bright as he glides through the room, his look complete with a proud gait and even more confident stride.

But in the sea of flashing lights and unfamiliar faces, his gaze wanders to the young girl in red; the sight of her smile far more brilliant than the colours of the spotlight, the grace with which she carries herself more captivating than even the dancers performing on the stage.

She finishes clearing out the dishes from the table near the bar, dumping the tray on the counter surface before plopping down on the vinyl stool nearby. She sits there looking pretty, ever the perfect porcelain doll: nice to look at, but never to touch. _Pity_ , Gilbert thinks, _what a waste for such a pretty face_.

He walks up to her, sucking up his diminishing resolve and steeling himself to make conversation.

"Hey there, pretty lady," he announces with a wink. "What's your name?"

Elizabeta scowls. "I'm married."

"And I'm Gilbert," he replies with a cheeky grin. "Nice to meet ya."

-x-

Elizabeta returns home at ten in the evening.

There's a post-it on the refrigerator, letters scrawled in cursive and held together by smiley-faced magnets and novelty souvenirs.

_I will be spending the night in the studio to help with the preparations for the autumn concert. Will be back in the morning. The bills are on the coffee table. –R_

-x-

"Elizabeta," she tells Gilbert when he returns to the bar three days later. The pale-faced customer blinks only in surprise, a sable coat bunched up in his hands as he is midway through taking a seat.

"What?"

"My name," she explains, leaning over the counter and reaching out to offer him a handshake. "You asked for it before, right? I'm Elizabeta Edelstein, or if you want the complete version, Héderváry-Edelstein. It's a pleasure to meet you."

He smiles, taking her hand. "Gilbert."

"Yes, I know. You told me already." She turns away to take the order of the blonde Englishman beside him. Another shot of whisky on the rocks? Elizabeta nods, noting the customer's puffy eyes. Surely this man is no longer sober.

"But you can call me Gil! Mind if I called ya Liz? Lizzy?"

"That sounds a bit childish, don't you think?" She pours the man a shot, sliding it across the counter.

"And so? It's not like you're old either."

"Fine," she grumbles, acquiescing. "'Liz' will be fine. Can I get your order now, Gil?"

"Can I get your three sizes now, Liz?" Gilbert asks out loud, smirking and lewd.

Her gaze falls back onto the grey-haired customer. Fucking albino.

"Say that again and I will hit you with my frying pan," Elizabeta hisses, snatching his collar and pulling him close for a moment as their faces almost collide. She slackens her grip, letting him go, and her voice is now mockingly saccharine. "So…what would you like to order, _sir_?"

"A beer, then." Gilbert laughs. "Give me your best one."

"That's better," she smiles. "By the way, I'm adding 10% service charge."

-x-

Elizabeta clears her throat, loud against the sound of the piano that croons Strauss' _Kaiserwalzer._

"Will you be returning home tonight, Roderich?"

"I'm afraid that there have been some… _ah,_ complications at work which I will have to attend to. You needn't wait for me this evening."

It isn't a surprise, though. Roderich hardly comes home nowadays.

Now, it's one thing to know that people cheat in relationships, considering it as a likelihood, or a mere possibility; but it's another thing altogether when you're faced with it as a reality rather than an acknowledged fact. When the evidence is laid out in front of you and the truth is held right before your very eyes, it won't be long before the time comes that your waning patience will finally snap, shatter, and break.

She knows there's someone else.

"Complications with the autumn concert?" she asks, faking interest. _Or do you mean complications with your mistress?_ Her mind screams and she swallows the lump in her throat to hold them back.

"Yes, Lillian is having difficulty with the fingering for her flute solo in Bach's _Partita,"_ her husband articulates. "Which is why I must teach it to her, lest we find an alternative piece to replace it in our repertoire."

_Oh, Lillian? Is that her name, now? I remember last time the problem had been Victoria, and her embouchure on the clarinet. Minx._

"All right," she says as she flashes him a small smile. "Well, I should probably head to the bar—"

The melody ceases. The Austrian stops playing, and he looks up instead to face his wife from behind the rims of his spectacles.

"You don't have work today," he says, and he eyes her with a brief air of suspicion.

"My friend asked me to take her shift tonight," she throws back a flippant response.

"I see…Take care, Elizabeta. I love you."

"You too, dear." She gets on her toes, promptly pressing a kiss against his lips. "I love you too," she says, but her words are scripted, hollowed of their meaning from the monotony of their routine; the kiss empty and unsettling in the pit of her stomach.

Roderich is a practiced liar; but Elizabeta, as it would seem, is a far better actress.


	2. Tango Suite Andante

Three months.

Gilbert visits the bar at sporadic intervals of days and weeks, always scanning the crowd and calling himself to Elizabeta’s attention with his bright crimson eyes and wide, toothy smile.

“Hey, Liz.”

He looks at her, underneath the flickering bulb of the fluorescent light – the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes borne from the weariness of age, the freckles scattered upon her nose that he never noticed until now but she had always complained about before, the creeping blush blossoming upon her cheeks that carried a mix of rose and crimson red – and it’s all those imperfections, he is convinced, that make her look so much more beautiful on a night like this.

She catches his stare.

“…Your usual, Gil?”

She smiles at him and she is _lovely,_ he thinks, in every sense of the word.

“ _Ja.”_

-x-

There is a note on the refrigerator.

_Check the drawer. I left money for this month’s bills. I won’t be home for a while. – E_

-x-

She sleeps in the bar now, often on the couches of the booths, or on tucked arms resting atop the serving counter. She only goes home to shower or change. Gilbert catches her once.

“Rough night?”

“It’s my husband.” She pours him a glass and he swipes it from the counter, chugging the beer in a hearty attempt before signalling for a refill.

“Had a fight?”

“No,” she replies, though her gaze is somewhat distant. “Not really.”

“What’s it like?” he asks.

“What’s what like?” she answers, and pours him another glass.

“Your relationship. Does he hurt you? ‘Cause if that bastard tries anything, I’ll beat him right up for you.”

“So what, you’re my knight in shining armor now?” she snorts at the thought. “Where’s your white horse?”

“Who needs a horse when you’ve got a car?” he answers back with a wink.

“Yeah, well…I’m hell of a lot stronger than you, don’t forget.”

“Easy there, little missy. You underestimate the power of my awesome.”

“I can beat you with my frying pan, Gil,” she says with a laugh, glad to resume their routine of playful banter and half-hearted insults. “I take it I could probably handle him more than you.”

“Well then, tell me, Liz,” Gilbert speaks up in a more quiet tone now, setting the glass aside and propping his elbows on the table. “Do you love him?”

“Of course, “ Elizabeta replies, grabbing a rag and wiping the counter surface. “He’s my husband. I married him.”

He tucks his chin atop laced fingers, puckering his lips then pouting in her direction. “Boo. That’s not the answer I was looking for.”

“Uh…yes, then?”

“Allow me to rephrase it, Liz.” And Gilbert downs the remnants in the glass before leaning in just a little bit closer, his eyes piercing and honest with pure concern. “Are you happy with him?”

And the bartendress only blinks, but doesn’t fathom a response.

-x-

“Morning, Roderich,” Elizabeta greets him as she slaves over the frying pan, cooking breakfast as her husband walks into the kitchen. 

Their relationship is empty now, reduced to empty greetings and austere mornings; a combination of walking on eggshells and traipsing around shallow cordialities.

“Good morning, Elizabeta.”

Traces from the events of the previous evening are still evident in his appearance, Elizabeta notes, judging from the dishevelment of his hair and the collar of his shirt; vestiges of a mistress littered around as debris, taking the forms of neck bruises and lipstick stains.

He doesn’t even bother to hide it that well anymore. Elizabeta looks away, opting not to say anything. The proof of Roderich’s affair hangs still in the air, forever the words last unspoken on her lips, the elephant in the room that remains to go unnoticed.

-x-

“I love you, Liz,” Gilbert confesses, his pale face flushed and pink, the noise of his words loud against the sound of her heartbeat.

“I can’t love you, Gil,” she pleads. “You know that I can’t—“

“Yes,” he says, and he hates how he knows she will never be his. “But you don’t have to.”

“I’m sorry, I—“

_“Please.”_

She feels his lips crash against hers, the bitter taste of alcohol colliding with her teeth. 

-x-

The piano is playing. Sibelius, Elizabeta recalls. _Valse Triste._

Another waltz.

“I want a divorce,” Elizabeta says at last, her voice tinny and edged with slight trepidation.

“Elizabeta, my dear,” Roderich quips, not even bothering to return her stare, “have you gotten drunk at work again?” He chuckles at this; his tone sardonic, mocking and contemptuous.

 _How dare he?_ Elizabeta seethes. How dare he shoot her down like that?

“I’m serious.”

“No.” His answer is curt, brusque and stern. He plays a chord. Forte.

“Why the hell not?”

“I will not permit it.” His expression is stern as he counters her tersely. “Don’t think I don’t know about your trysts with that red-eyed German, Elizabeta.”

 _And what about yours?_ Elizabeta wants to scream, struggling to bite the words back from spilling out her mouth. _What was her name again? Your mistress…Lillian, was it?_

“You don’t care,” she hisses scathingly, gazing at him with accusing eyes. “You never cared.” The words are bitter against her lips, rough and stinging at the edge of her tongue.

“Ah, but I do. Have you forgotten, my dear,” Roderich snaps, the rhythm accelerating as he reaches a crescendo, “what I had promised you on the night of our wedding eight years ago?”

“You told me you loved me,” she says quietly. Voice low; hesitant, even.

“Yes,” he says, tongue clicking in distaste. “And I meant it then.” He stops for a moment, quiet all of a sudden, pausing and struggling to look for the right words.

Elizabeta finds them for him.

“Perhaps,” she says with a waver in her voice, hurt mirrored in her emerald eyes. “Perhaps you did, Roderich. But you most certainly do not mean it now.”

-x-

“I could make you happy,” Gilbert blurts the words out right then, cheeks flushing slightly as they tumbled out his lips.

“Gil—“

“But I could,” he says as he pulls her closer, the puffs of his breath warm against her ear; his voice every bit as desperate as his heart lets him feel. “I could, Liz, if you’d let me.”

So she does.

-x-

And here they are again, amidst fevered kisses and sweat-slicked skin, long-craved affections and burning ardour. Warm arms wrap around the other’s torso, a tasteful tango of carnal indulgences and lustful desires.

The bar lights flicker for a while, a single buzz before it shuts down. Closed.

A fallacy of love between two strangers in the dark.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, please leave a review :)


End file.
